


Our Own Side

by theEmpressGeneral



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Aziraphale, Domestic Crowley, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Protective Crowley, Sex Talk, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, domestic ineffable husbands, general obliviousness and dumbassery, ineffable husbands, not my best writing sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theEmpressGeneral/pseuds/theEmpressGeneral
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley try to figure out this whole "couple" thing in their own special way.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 24





	Our Own Side

“Crowley dear, have you ever considered what we’re going to _do_ with ourselves?”

“What do you mean?” Crowley looked up. He was sprawled across one of Aziraphale’s plush armchairs, scrolling through Twitter. At the sound of his love’s voice he looked up. 

“We don’t have to perform any more miracles or temptations. What are we going to do?”

“Same as we always have, I s’pose. Minus the jobs and clandestine meetings. We can go out together now.”

“Yes, but . . . is that really what you want?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “What d’you mean is that what I want? I want what you want, you idiot.”

“But you personally. You as an individual. What do _you_ want?”

“Out of life?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Who knows. I’ve never really thought about it. To spend time with you, I guess, as much as I can.”

“Aww, that’s very sweet, Crowley.” Aziraphale blushed. “What would you say . . . of moving?”

“Moving? To where?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe a place in the South Downs. We’ve always talked about moving there, you know.”

“‘S true. What made you think of it?”

“Saw an ad in the paper. Lovely little cottage just outside of Tadfield, and it’s up for sale. I was thinking we could stop by and see.”

Crowley grimaced.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“Nah, it’s not that. A cottage sounds like a wonderful idea. But do we really have to live so close to Adam and the Them? It’s not like we’re going to try and raise him. We tried that with Warlock, and look what happened. I think it’s best if we stay out of his life.”

“Oh, but my dear . . .” Aziraphale’s voice took on a whiny tone. Crowley groaned.

“Ugh, fine. But no kids in the house. I want my own place. And we’re going to have to have a talk about decor.”

“Of course, dear.”

  
  


The next day, they climbed into the Bentley and set off at an extremely illegal pace towards Tadfield. Aziraphale was in absurdly good spirits, as always, and Crowley did his level best to counter it, but found himself getting happier and happier as they got closer to the site of the not-alypse. It brought back good memories, that was all.

The realtor who met them was a charming older lady who, it is almost certain, assumed they were a gay couple. Crowley didn’t mind much. He was used to it, and it was kind of nice to be mistaken for dating, except for when Aziraphale would speak up and say “oh no, no, we’re not dating. You must have made a mistake.”

The house itself was also quite nice, and, in Crowley’s opinion, decently livable. It wasn’t prime real estate like his apartment, but it was a cozy little place, with plenty of room for his plants, and spots by the fire for Aziraphale’s armchairs. Also -- and this was the main draw, in Crowley’s opinion -- there was only one bedroom. 

Aziraphale tittered quite a bit over this, to which Crowley simply replied, with a devilish grin, “What, afraid I’ll _do_ something, angel?”, upon which he promptly shut up. Crowley laughed a little at this and told the realtor lady, “We’ll take it.”

“Dear! Shouldn’t we talk about this?” Aziraphale cried, cheeks still flaming. 

“Don’t you like it?”

“Course I do, it’s just -- do we really have the money? And is it in the right spot? Perhaps we ought to consider a few more options first.”

Crowley glanced over at the realtor lady, then leaned in and said, “We’re celestial beings, money isn’t an object. As to the location, I can assure you this is prime real estate. Do you want it or not?” 

“I do,” Aziraphale said in a small voice.

“Then let’s get it! C’mon, how bad can it be? I’ll put separate beds in the bedroom if you like.” 

“Well, I do suppose it does have a rather nice fireplace.” 

Crowley leaned back with a smile and said to the realtor, “We’ll take it.” 

  
  


Crowley was ready to move within two days, but it took Aziraphale a full week to pack up the bookshop. He kept deliberating over which books to keep and which to donate, or rather, transfer to his private storage facility. Eventually Crowley ended up buying another storage unit and transferring the contents of the bookshop there. Even after that, it took him a while. Crowley took to sleeping over at the bookshop a great deal of the time, especially since his flat was all packed up. It was nice, he had to admit. Aziraphale took good care of him, and his couches were ridiculously comfy. 

Aziraphale insisted on moving their things the old-fashioned way, with a truck and by hand, and Crowley agreed reluctantly. He may have been skinny, but what was there was pure muscle. 

Crowley was remarkably industrious, and they were completely moved in just under two days. It was all worth it when he saw Aziraphale settle into an armchair by the fireplace with a satisfied sigh and happy smile. 

For the first week they slept in the armchairs, but then it was time to get a bed. Aziraphale insisted he was fine with sleeping in one bed -- “as long as you keep to your side, and don’t hog the covers” -- but Crowley sensed some lingering unease within him, so when they got to the store, he cornered him. 

“Alright, spill. What’s up with the bed thing? Why don’t you want to sleep with me?”

Aziraphale froze, and Crowley put a hand to his forehead.

“Not like _that,_ you idiot. I mean in the same bed.” 

“Oh. Well it’s just that, um, ah, well you see, it’s --”

“Spit it out.”

“Okay. Well. Here’s the thing. I didn’t want to tell you like this, and I certainly didn’t think it would be today --”

“Aziraphale.”

“OK. So. I -- might have, um, developed some, um . . . some, some less than holy feelings for -- ah, well, you know what I’m saying, I --”

“You’re gonna have to say it.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale blurted. Then he covered his mouth. “Oh God, did I really just say that? Christ. This is _not_ how I thought it would come out. Um . . . I’m sorry. I, I know you don’t feel the same way, and that’s totally okay, and if you don’t want to live with me anymore that’s okay, and I’m just so sorry . . .” His eyes filled with tears and he shrunk back against the wall, turning away in shame. 

“Whoa. Aziraphale. Chill. Are you even going to let me respond?”

“W-what?”

“Are you going to let me respond?”

“I -- I s-suppose so . . .”

“Alright, then here’s my answer.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulders and shoved him against the wall. “I love you, you blithering idiot.”

“You -- what?” 

“I love you.” As Aziraphale stared at him dumbfoundedly, Crowley let go. “What? Why is that so hard to believe? I’ve literally been flirting with you for 6,000 fucking years.”

“Language, Crowley. And -- really?”

“YES! Oh my Satan, how did you not notice? I was so obvious! Everyone knew it! For hell’s sake, ‘angel’ entered the English language as a term of endearment because of _me!”_

“It did?” 

“For hell’s sake, angel, _yes!_ Have you really been liking me all this time and not saying anything?”

“Maybe . . .”

“Geez. Well, now that you know, what do you want to do about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well” — Crowley licked his lips and leaned closer, pinning Aziraphale against the wall — “we could make it official.”

“Official? You mean like—”

“Tell our friends, yes.” Crowley’s eyes narrowed and a cunning smile curved across his face. “What were you thinking I meant?”

“Oh, erm, it’s nothing.” Aziraphale turned red as a beet. “Shall we pick out a mattress?”

“Oh, indeed, I think we should. Be sure to pick out a sturdy one.” 

This time Aziraphale just rolled his eyes. “You little devil.” 

  
  


When they finally got home, things got . . . awkward. Crowley had lost some of his composure, and gone into “oh-my-goodness-it’s-happening” mode, while Aziraphale did his best to smother him with angelic love. Crowley awkwardly accepted a cup of hot cocoa, a sweater, a blanket, and multiple hugs in the space of half an hour, while going into deep shock.

Finally he suggested seeing a movie to have something for Aziraphale to do, but then the angel just curled up against him and fell fast asleep. Bit by bit Crowley relaxed until he was able to put an arm around his boyfriend and pull him even closer. Aziraphale let out a happy sigh and melted into his side, and Crowley dared for the first time in many years to hope that his dream was really coming true. 

At some point, he fell asleep. Early the next morning he was awoken by the delicious smell of pancakes and maple syrup. He opened his eyes and, noticing Aziraphale wasn’t at his side anymore, wandered through the house. He found his lover in the kitchen cooking pancakes with an apron that read “Kiss the Cook” and an absurdly wide smile. 

Crowley wrapped his arms around him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Morning.”

“Morning, dear. I’ve made pancakes; would you like one?”

“Yes, please.”

“Set the table, then. They’ll be ready in just a minute.” 

“Mkay.” Ten short minutes later, they were seated and ready. Crowley slathered his with butter and maple syrup and even — much to Aziraphale’s horror — Tabasco sauce. The angel covered his with a moderate swirl of syrup, but he ate far more than Crowley did. 

“So,” Aziraphale said as they were cleaning up, “I was thinking we could go into town today and pick out some furniture and basic decor. How about it?”

“Sure thing.” Crowley grinned. “It’s like we’re a real couple and everything.”

“We are a real couple, you idiot.” 

“Right. Still getting used to that.” Crowley paused and then added, “How will we decorate? You and I have such different styles.”

“Oh, we’ll figure something out, I’m sure. No need to worry.”

“Mm-hmm.” Crowley eyed his angel suspiciously. He was  _ not  _ going to let him pick everything out just because they were dating.

“It’s huge,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And so  _ big.” _

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can’t take my eyes off it.”

“Look, I brought us to Ikea for a reason. Are we going in or not?”

“Oh, right.” The angel flushed and hurried inside. “Where do we start?”

Crowley shrugged. “See anything you like?”

“Not yet . . . maybe in the armchair section.”

“This is nice.” Crowley walked up to a piece of minimalist art and stroked its smooth black frame. “I like the abstract shapes.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “It’s so plain.” 

“It’s  _ expressive.”  _

“Let’s explore our other options first. I don’t want to get something we’ll regret.”

“Uh-huh.” Crowley scoffed and followed his angel deeper into the store. Soon they reached the armchair section. Aziraphale spent a full forty-five minutes testing out the various designs, clearly in his own kind of heaven. Crowley longed to go after the modern art and flowerpots, but didn’t dare leave his angel alone for fear he would buy out their whole stock. 

“Look, I’ll make you a deal,” he finally said after an hour. “I get the outside, you get the inside. Okay?”

“No way! You’ll make it look like a witch’s house. Besides, I rather like gardening.”

“Gardening is  _ my  _ thing!”

“I like it too!”

Crowley sighed and growled deep in his chest. “We’re not going to be able to do this, are we?” 

“I think we’re doing very well.”Aziraphale crossed his arms. Crowley rolled his eyes.

Behind them, an Ikea worker took the worst possible time to ask, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“NO,” they both snapped, and the frightened woman took off. Aziraphale gave his demon a tired smile. 

“Is there any way we can compromise?”

“I’m thinking. I like minimalism; you like clutter. I like black; you like white. I like to be fashionable; you like to be comfortable. I like punk--”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Let me think. What do we both like?” 

They pondered. 

“Food,” Aziraphale offered. 

“Suits.”

“Fire.”

“Plants.”

“Art.”

“Books.” 

“Couches.”

“Loveseats.” 

Crowley grinned. “I think we can make it work.”

“Black and white makes gray.”

“And I do like Oscar Wilde.” 

“Thought you said you didn’t read.” Aziraphale grinned teasingly.

“Wellll . . . that may have been a slight fabrication.” 

“I knew it!” He beamed. “So can we get this armchair?”

“Hmm.” Crowley looked it up and down. Tan with plenty of cushions, kicks back far enough to sleep in . . . “Fine. As long as we get that leather couch over there.”

“I can put cushions on it.”

“Deal.” They smiled and wandered off hand in hand. 

  
  


Two days later, all their new things were moved in. They had done it the mortal way again, hoping to blend in as they would soon be living among humans. They couldn’t just miracle things the way they had before around their neighbors; they had to Do It Themselves. 

A week after that, Aziraphale threw a housewarming party. This worked out perfectly, since Crowley loved to throw parties and Aziraphale loved staying home. Anathema, Newton, and all the Them were invited, as well as a couple of each of their friends, preapproved by the other, of course. There was an odd mix of literary enthusiasts, possible criminals, and surprisingly . . . grandmas?

“I like hanging out with them,” Crowley had defended himself. “They’re nice. They don’t judge me based on my appearance. To them, it’s like having another grandson. They knit me things and recommend me books.”

“I knew you had a soft side.” Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t believe all your friends are old ladies.”

“Not  _ all  _ of them! Did you meet Percival? Or, or Stab? His real name is Matthew, but he likes to be called Stab.”

“I met them, and I love you anyway.”

“Aww, you romantic.” Crowley frowned but was secretly pleased. “What about yours? Some of your friends have mighty Socialist ideals.”

“I’m friends with them because they’re lonely, so stop being mean. I’m the patron saint of free will, after all.”

“You are not.”

“I am!”

“Bullshit.”

“Language, Crowley. I’m actually the patron saint of those of the more . . . liberal sexual persuasion.”

“Perverts or gays?”

“Crowley! Homosexuals, of course. I would never associate with  _ those  _ type of people, especially not those who call themselves MAPs. Most people assume that I’m gay, even though I don’t identify as male. I identify as human. I’m neither gay nor straight.”

“I’m genderfluid.”

“I know.”

“Well. Shall we greet our guests?”

“Yes, I rather think we  _ shall.”  _ Aziraphale grinned.

“Oh, you’re teasing me for using old-fashioned language? You’ve been wearing the same coat for 200 years.”

“So? It’s fashionable.”

“I assure you it is  _ not.”  _

“Meanie head.”

“Pansy.” 

They laughed and went to answer the door. 

  
  


Crowley twirled a wineglass between his fingers and studied the mess surrounding him. It was the end of the night, and all the guests were gone, leaving an abominable mess behind them. At the moment, he was too tired to handle it. “Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?” The angel was sprawled across his favorite tan armchair, eyes half-closed, a forgotten wineglass in his left hand. His hair was tousled and his cheeks flushed. 

“What’s next?”

“Hmm?” He was clearly spacing out. Crowley fought through the muzziness in his own head to organize his thoughts. 

“In our relationship. We announced it. We’re living together. What’s next?”

“Mmm. Eternity, I suppose.”

“Will you be content with that?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean is that what you want?”

“What?” 

A strange pause. “Aziraphale, are you a virgin?”

_ “What?”  _ The angel jerked upright. “What kind of question is that?”

“I was just wondering.” 

“You’re weird, Crowley.”

“Yet you love me.”

“Hmm. I wonder.” Aziraphale laughed. “In answer to your question, yes, I am. There was once, with Wilde, when I almost--”

“I sensed that.”

“But we didn’t. And he was thrown in prison scarcely a month later. How about you? I’m guessing you aren’t.”

Crowley didn’t respond. The angel laughed. 

“No need to be self-conscious. You’re the one who brought it up, anyway.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.” 

A very long pause followed. Crowley: “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Obviously. I don’t want to lose you, either.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Aziraphale raised his head and looked at Crowley through half-lidded eyes. “Then what do you mean?”

“Aziraphale . . .”

“That’s my name.”

“. . . will you marry me?”

“Hm?” He jerked bolt upright and stared at Crowley with wide, dilated eyes. The demon raised his eyebrows.

“Well?”

“I mean, I, I -- christ. I can’t deal with this while drunk. Let’s sober up.”

“Mmph. Fine.” They squeezed their eyelids shut as the wine bottles refilled and the fog cleared from their heads. Aziraphale shook himself and blinked once, twice. “Did you mean that?”

“Well, yeah. I’d meant to do it in a more romantic way, but now is as good a time as any. ‘Specially after I’d breached that already difficult topic.” 

“I . . . suppose so, but I’d have to think about it . . . we live forever, you know . . .”

“Aziraphale. Do you love me?”

“Yes.” Barely a whisper. 

“Do you want to marry me?”

“Yes.” Even smaller.

“Then it’s settled!” Crowley grinned broadly and leaned back. “The wedding will be in the spring.”

“What? Crowley, wait -- slow down --”

“Am I going too fast again?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “I -- well --”

“I can slow down.”

“I know.”

“But it hurts.”

“I know.” 

The angel sighed. “I get to plan it.”

“Okay.”

“And choose the guest list.”

“Fine.”

“And we wait until after the wedding.”

“. . . fine.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

“6,000 motherfucking years.” 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 


End file.
